Despair
by springawakened
Summary: George is struggling to deal with Fred's death. Short, not for happy bunnies. Written for mew-tsubaki's Pandora's Little Box o Terrors challenge!


Two hundred and sixty-four thousand, eight hundred and twenty-one.

Two hundred and sixty-four thousand, eight hundred and twenty-two.

Two hundred and sixty-four thousand, eight hundred and twenty-three.

Two hundred and sixty-four thousand, eight hundred and twenty-four.

Two hundred and sixty-four thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five seconds since George Fabian Weasley had been abandoned.

Two hundred and sixty-four thousand, eight hundred and twenty-eight seconds since his best friend, his other half, and his brother had left him.

George reached out with one hand, his pale fingers grasping the worn clock sitting on the shelf before him, and threw it harshly to one side, breathing out raggedly as the methodical ticking of the second hand stopped abruptly. In the three days (that had felt like three years) it had been since the Battle of Hogwarts, the twenty year old had not once left his apartment since returning to it later that night, devastated and exceedingly intoxicated. His family had to deal with the loss, too, and his being present wouldn't exactly have done wonders for the collective Weasley mood. So he was doing them all a favour, and staying out of their way.

Today was the day he'd been dreading for what felt like his entire life. Today was Fred's funeral.

They were burying him today, and Remus and Tonks tomorrow. George had never been to a funeral before, apart from the ceremony they'd had for Dumbledore, and he wasn't terribly excited about committing his better half to the earth just yet. He never would, in truth, but it just seemed so fucking soon.

George could still remember the precise number of freckles on the left side of Fred's face, and that there were exactly twenty-four more on the right side, and that the right side of his own face had had twenty-five more freckles than his left.

He could still remember the way, after a Quidditch match, Fred would come off the pitch with the back of his robes drenched in sweat, and the front as dry as the Sahara, and the way he'd always try and put his Beater's gloves on his ears, each time as unsuccessful as the previous.

He could still remember the way Fred's right eyebrow had twitched slightly higher than his left when he was excited, and the look in his eyes that signalled he'd just thought of another product for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, or prank to pull on an unsuspecting caretaker.

He could still remember the way he never had to say a word, and Fred would understand him completely, managing to comfort him without uttering a single syllable; the way he could always make everything alright.

He could still remember the way Fred had looked at him before the Battle, and the naivety that had lead him to believe it was going to be okay. He could still remember the way his world had stopped, the icy hand that had gripped his heart, and the non-human speed at which he had raced towards his brother. He could still remember the thudding of his heart, irregular and clumsy, reverberating around his head, as he'd dived to the floor, grabbing Fred's shoulders with both of his shaking hands, and shaken him. He could still remember the look in Percy's eyes, and the words he'd shouted, the pleas he'd hollered, until the sobs had overtaken him and he couldn't even choke out his twin's name any more.

He could still remember the way his life had stopped when he'd realised Fred was never coming back.

"George?"

A soft, familiar voice came from behind, but he pulled his wand out as he spun around, pointing it right in the face of whoever it was, his eyes unfocused. A moment later, he lowered it a fraction, blinking a couple of times and realising the intruder was only Ginny.

"Gin, Merlin," he said, pushing his wand back into his pocket, "don't do that. Appear."

His face was expressionless, blank, and he stared straight at his little sister unabashedly, remembering as he did so that he'd given her a key way back, when he and Fred had first bought the place.

"You're still coming today, right?" she asked, looking up at him searchingly.

"Of course," he gritted his teeth, making an effort not to spit the two short words at her.

She didn't reply, instead looking away from him and around the dark apartment. The curtains were pulled tight, no doubt held together with some charm, she thought, and the place was, for want of a better term, a pigsty. Books, robes, plates; everything was scattered around in places it shouldn't have been, unsteady towers almost creating a maze along the floor. The kitchen table was littered with empty bottles, some still standing, but most lying in pieces in the remnants of what they'd once held, lying in pieces as broken as George felt.

But it was the walls that caught her attention. The last time she'd been here, the curtains had been open, filling the crowded apartment with bright light that bounced around all corners of the space, reflected off the many mirrors placed haphazardly wherever there was enough space, she deemed. They had brought the apartment light on even the darkest of days.

Now, they served no such purpose. Those that still remained were covered by sheets, robes, whatever had been at hand when George had come home. Several had been hurled at the wall and lay, shattered, all over the floor, although some had been luckier, and simply taken down, placed facing towards the wall.

"I can't stand them," George said, his voice cracking, having followed his sister's line of sight. "I can't see myself in them. I just see him."

"But it's not," Ginny said uncertainly, watching the tear roll down his cheek. "It's just you, Georgie."

"I KNOW!" he shouted, reaching up with both hands and grabbing fistfuls of his lank, ginger hair. "I know," he repeated, more softly, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, as though willing the situation away. He let his hands fall as he opened his brown eyes, gazing at the teenager despairingly. "He's gone, Gin, he's gone, he's left, and he's _never coming back_."

Ginny moved, finally, coming forward and wrapping her arms around her older brother as he cried. For what felt like the first time in her life, she had nothing to say. She didn't know what to say.


End file.
